Dancing in Fall

The sky invites
The sycamores to dance.
Bare branches
Bend and sway
Curtsying to one another
In proper fashion.
IMG_5048.JPG
Meanwhile the leaves have flown.
They turn up around back
Loitering by the steps,
Rabble rousing and wild dancing…
Waiting for the night wind
to whisk them away. IMG_5084.JPG

I’m very thankful that the leaves in the country don’t require raking, piling, bagging, and stacking. The night wind just whisks them away…

 

This was originally posted in November of 2014.
November 2017 is national novel writing month around here. So, yeah, don’t bug me, I’m finishing my novel…

Redemption 

Imago resting on the wicker–
I thought him a leaf until he
flickered and showed his true self.

Borning or dying? Two weeks he lives;
Red cherry-stained wings forgive
His dark Instar larval past

when he thieved oak and wild cherry leaves.
Io carries proof of redemption–
the universe on his wings.

The Gloriousness of June

I THINK
I will write you a letter, 
June day.
Dear June Fifth,
you're all in green,
so many kinds and all one
green, tree shadows on
grass blades and grass
blade shadows. The air
fills up with motor
mower sound. The cat
walks up the drive
a dead baby rabbit
in her maw. The sun
is hot, the breeze
is cool. And suddenly
in all the green
the lilacs bloom,
massive and exquisite
in color and shape
and scent. The roses
are more full of
buds than ever. No
flowers. But soon.
June day, you have
your own perfection:
so green to say
goodbye to. Green,
stick around
a while.
         -- James Schuyler

James Schuyler has written the perfect poem: a love letter to a day in June. Not just any day. Today.

June green is unlike any other, vibrant and alive, still nourished by the spring rains, not yet ruined by hot sun, nor eaten by insects. Next to the June green, the peonies are more vibrant, the sundrops more sunny, the daisies more pure. Yes, June green is more.

The gardens are planted, red pears and green apples are growing, cherries are ripening, birds are nesting, perching, and singing.

The wild primrose opened in Sunday’s sun and surprised the surrounding motley plants. Her dazzling yellow perks up the shabby shed and makes the neighboring weeds look more stately. 

The new gate opens wide and the new fence keeps the fruit trees in and the riffraff critters out (so far).


If I stand by the garden gate I can watch the grape vines growing, their tendrils curling around and around. The grapes are too small still to be more than a vague hope. Will they be sweet? Will they be juicy? Will they be jam or wine?

The cherries are yellow, blushing pink. I ate one today, still sour, still small. Bluebirds are nesting in the eaves of the porch; wrens are nesting by the door. They can have some cherries as long as they share the deep blue June sky.

Dear June fifth, you are glorious. You are enough.